Shortly after daybreak, I notice the eighties clock on the wall. It’s not much to look at – a dirty, cream near-square covered in clear plastic. The way it divides into compartments reminds me of an airline meals tray. The main course is the clock itself; the hands delineating the circular plate. Then, neatly in a line running along the top in separate containers: the day – the condiments and cutlery, the date – roll and butter, and the month – a spotted dick-ory dessert.
It has a historical charm, for me anyway. Would younger person even consider its history? After all, clock design hasn’t really changed that much. Digital and twenty-four hour versions sit alongside the older, traditional clock, but haven’t really replaced it. When this building was put up, this would have been state of the art.
Time is catching up with our grandfatherish clock, which proudly announces that today is Thu 31 Sep.
I guess it’s not unusual for days like these to occur. I’m old enough to still wear a wrist-watch and it happens that my end of month sequencing is not what it used to be. Mine currently says juev 1 – French and Spanish alternatives being available. Thank God we’re taking back control and watches like these will be consigned to the dustbin of history now Brexit is truly done and dusted!
On this leap of days, there are 4 of us, stuck in a hospital ward, going nowhere fast. Three have had our ribcages surgically sawn open and veins ‘harvested’ from our legs and grafted onto our hearts, in an operation which is affectionately known as a cabbage – CABG standing for coronary artery bypass graft. Two are up and walking and two of us are still bed-bound. The others are all Cornish, having crossed the Tamar to get here. I am the new boy, transferred from the east and brought up late last night from the bowels. Stories are shared as to how we got here. Sam, the other bed-ridden patient, is the odd one out. He was felled by a heavy, wooden wardrobe door, which dislodged a clot somewhere in his body. Left in a hospital corridor, valuable time was lost before he was seen. He knows the name of the person who was (ir)responsible. Half of his left foot is an unsightly purple and black. They’ve got a job on to try and save his foot. A military surgeon in khaki trousers visits him every day. The staff think he’s got a nice bum. I can’t see it myself.
I’ve had two and a half weeks to prepare my backstory, as I was transferred from another hospital. Every year, I try to swim 100 times in the sea. It’s a suitable target for me and I usually achieve it within the last two weeks of December. This year, 2020, Covid year, got off to a slow start. I’d hardly swum at all until May, when restrictions were eased. After that, I took every opportunity to swim. It’s always been therapeutic. It felt even moreso this year.
I’d swum every day in September and had become superfit. By September 16th, I ‘d got up to number 83 and set to have a record-breaking year. That day was the best swim of the year.. When I got to the beach, there was a seal lurking near the shore. I left it a minute, then went in regardless. The sun was shining, the sea was dead calm and there was hardly anyone around. I swam around Shag Rock for only about the third time that year. On the way back, I felt something brush my foot. It could have been a tall weed. Or a seal.
The next day, there was an easterly wind. I went to the sea on my Honda scooter, but the sea was rough. It looked like I’d have to miss a day. When I came down the steps to the beach, I saw a man out at sea waving, and drowning. There was a group of 3 teenage girls. One was on the phone to the coastguard. ‘They say don’t go in.’ So I went in.
From force of habit, I put my goggles and bright yellow swimming hat on.The man seems quite calm. His name is Jimmy. I tell him mine. I knew Silver Survival training from my schooldays would come in handy eventually. It’s just a shame I’m not in my pyjamas. I hold him under his chin and we start to make our way back to the shore. Progress is slow. I feel a nervous shakiness and a thought crosses my mind. What if I can’t save you? At what point do I leave you to save myself? Another man joins us and now the waves are pushing us back to the shore. They are ferocious and rip my hat and goggles clean off my face. But we make it back to dry land. We hold on to each other as we reach the safety of the sea wall. I have a split-second flash of what it must have been like to get off the beach in Normandy in ‘44. I’m brought back to earth by a cheeky bum-crack emerging from above the elasticated waistband of the man in front. When we get up the steps, there are two ambulances waiting for us. They want us to come back to hospital to be checked over. I argue that getting back here to retrieve my bike would be a pain in the arse, but they don’t let up. We travel across town in our big yellow taxis. I still feel pretty pumped. In the A&E bays, I chat more to the other rescuer. We get wheeled round to X ray together. I find out he was born the day before I was. Then comes the shock.
‘Your troponin levels are very high. You’ve had a heart attack.’
It doesn’t really sink in. Wasn’t today a good day? I felt dodgy for a bit, in the water, but surely when you have a heart attack you know about it? It’s true that I had some previous. 20 years ago, I’d had a stent fitted. So I think, they’ll probably fit me up with a second. The next day, an angiogram tells them that I need something bigger this time.
One of the team says: ‘I’ve seen healthier hearts in some 90 year olds.’
I start up the mantra that saving someone’s life has saved mine. Then I have to wait. As a seemingly very healthy man in no pain, it feels weird having to stay in a holding hospital for what turns out to be eleven days. I watch videos, do a lot of talking with patients who come and go, sit out in the sun, take surreptitious selfies of my bronzed, unscarred torso and leg, until I am transferred to Plymouth.
I went in on Monday afternoon at 2. I woke up at midday on Tuesday. They stopped my heart for 45 minutes and put me on a machine. After binding my ribcage with wire, they had to re-open me, as there was a drainage problem.
Later, I try to make a joke of it to one of the doctors. It involves comparing the manoeuvre with the re-opening of curtains, the encore, after a successful performance. It goes down like a lead balloon.
The morning is a merry-go-round of visits from staff in different coloured uniforms. Checkers, cleaners, providers of sustenance and the one I fear most: the pharmacist, in blue. Faces change, but the raised desk on eerily silent wheels is the menacing constant. Suddenly they’re there. Looking you over. I see a Nurse Ratchet matron wanting to punish innocent children, who might have sought solace in the school infirmary when they should have been cross-country running. Big mistake.
Two of the pharmacists have been Asian, including tall and slightly disconcerting Tapan today. He’s a sweet, shy man, but he gets unnecessarily targetted in a sly, racist ambush for not understanding the syntax of Cal’s poor attempt at humour.
The goodies are contained within what looks like a child’s coffin, on its side, with no lid and stuck to a table. I must be on about 25 tablets a day. I feel sick just looking at the mini paper cup with my first flurry of weapons to regulate heartbeat, reduce feelings of nausea, thin the blood, reduce clotting and kill pain. I’m going to wait for my breakfast. Yesterday I threw up twice. The smell of advancing food was enough to do it. I have phlegm oysters at the base of my throat, which won’t budge, but the orange ones are helping with this. I don’t mind taking the orange ones. I vomited into a Laurel and Hardy type cardboard hat. Quite a party piece. The sound I make when I retch feels like it’s coming from a person possessed. I try to apologise, but am rebuffed for even bothering. We are a strange breed of wounded human, with our signature vertical red lines down our front; like members of some weird Kiri Hari cult. Wires and tubes, catheters, cuts and stitches, tape and cotton wool and bandages interact with our flesh.
Then it’s breakfast time. I manage a swig of tea, made up of three short swallows and a spoonful of porridge. Except it’s not porridge, it’s inferior Ready Brek. Foreign flakes stick to the back of my throat. We have Electrocardiograms – more hair is removed from my receding chest, our blood is taken, blood pressure monitored and then more meds.
I mention how the clock has decided to plough its own furrow and create extra space to make this a double leap year. No-one else has noticed.
Lunch comes and goes. I manage a few spoonfuls of lentil soup, the jacket potato with grated cheese remains untouched, a spoon of ice cream is swallowed. The others, who are a few days along in their recovery, seem to have the appetites of horse-eaters.
Then at about 2pm, Danny is woken up by a greycoat. The reason why he’s sleeping is because he was wandering around at 4am chattering to Cal opposite, watching videos on a tablet without headphones and playing the American folk song, Candy Mountain. I didn’t have the strength to say anything and my wax, swimming ear-plugs were almost strong enough to repel his sonic advances. I’d taken them out briefly to make out the song he was listening to. It was a suitably bizarre choice given the situation. My mind has gone into no stress self-defence mode, so although Danny is one of the most obnoxious, politically incorrect idiots I have met in a long time, I refuse to rise to the bait. Looking after my heart and maintaining stable blood pressure is my priority.
‘Danny, we’ve got you a cake for your birthday! It is your birthday, right? On the 31st?,’ says grey Kayleigh.
‘It’s on the 31st alright, but January the 31st!’ replies a surprised Danny.
‘Oh well, it’s here now. You might as well all enjoy it.’
We get given a generous portion of strawberry and jelly cheesecake, which looks like it’s made of plastic. A photo prop from a Japanese menu. I have to at least show willing. Fortunately, it doesn’t smell of anything. The first loaded teaspoon makes it to my mouth. It’s not too bad, but very rich. I chew it for an interminable length of time, like my Grandfather used to masticate his Sunday roast. After five minutes or so, I retire hurt. I finish about a fifth of it. The good thing is that I manage to keep it down.
The story of the clock and the cake mistake, however, is regurgitated for a good twenty-four hours until 1st October finally arrives, a day late.